SSS Ranked Awakening: All My Skills Are at Level 100 Chapter 6: Daggers and Disguises

The moon, a cold and judgmentally shining coin, presided over the night sky.

Seated in a cross-legged posture on the aged wooden floor of his rented inn room, Leon found himself surrounded by an odd collection of treasures, much like a miserly dragon with peculiar tastes. The Cloak of Mild Invisibility lay folded neatly beside the bed. Nearby, the Orb of All-Elemental Affinity emanated a subdued energy, while the sealed Blade of Convenient Sharpness rested, radiating a silent, almost disdainful aura. His Boots of Slight Comfort remained snugly on his feet, and the Ring of Minor Regeneration diligently worked to mend the faint bruises and cuts he’d sustained, all without complaint. The rest of his acquisitions? Merely dead weight, at least for the moment.

"Alright, let’s see if this soul-inventory hack works again," he murmured to himself.

He reached inward, extending that peculiar metaphysical muscle he had only recently begun to command—a blend of pure instinct, sheer willpower, and a healthy dose of 'please don't explode.'

One by one, the unused treasures shimmered and then vanished into his personal vault: the cloak, the orb, the blade. Even in its sealed state, the sword offered a slight resistance, vibrating with a presence that clearly disliked being stowed away like some mundane tool. All vanished. Filed away neatly, as if in some cosmic IKEA shelving system conjured by his soul.

Leon flashed a grin. "Inventory management? Now that's some real RPG energy. This truly is peak reincarnation."

With a mere four silver coins to his name and a newfound streak of confidence coursing through him, all earned through the arduous task of selling soup and surviving muggings, Leon felt a sense of accomplishment. Now, it was time to acquire a weapon he could actually wield—unlike that emotionally dramatic, anime-esque sword.

Grayridge Market, even at night, was less bustling but no less perilous. The boisterous drunks had been replaced by silent figures lurking in the shadows, concealed behind crates and within dark corners. Leon moved with a defined purpose, his hood pulled low, his boots emitting soft whispers against the cracked cobblestones.

He passed decaying barrels, stray dogs listlessly dozing near refuse-filled gutters, and carts laden with meat cuts so questionable he wouldn't have trusted them even with the Ring of Regeneration safeguarding him.

Eventually, his path led him to a squat stone structure distinguished by a crooked iron anvil sign that swayed precariously overhead.

Forge & Flame.

This was, as far as he knew, the sole blacksmith in town.

Upon entering, the thick, acrid scent of burnt charcoal, oil, and raw metal assaulted his senses. The inferno of the forge cast a warm, flickering glow throughout the cluttered interior. Behind a heavily scarred wooden counter stood an elderly man, clad in a tattered leather apron, his beard permanently streaked with soot.

The blacksmith looked up, his gaze immediately narrowing with suspicion.

Leon, choosing to ignore the scrutiny, strolled in as if he were a regular patron, his hands clasped behind his back with the nonchalant air of a bored noble child on a museum visit.

"Lost, boy?" the smith grunted, his voice rough.

Leon arched an eyebrow. "No. I'm here to shop."

A brief silence hung in the air.

Then, a coarse snort escaped the blacksmith. "Is that so? A bit early for sword dreams, isn't it?"

Leon offered no reply. He bypassed the displays of heavy swords and axes—items far too cumbersome for him to wield effectively, even with both hands—and made his way to the rear of the shop, where a smaller rack of daggers glinted faintly in the firelight.

The smith began to approach, grumbling under his breath, but stopped short when Leon casually tossed a silver coin into the air.

"I'm not broke," Leon stated smoothly. "Just… efficient."

This simple action altered the atmosphere entirely.

The smith took a more discerning look at Leon. His clothes were clean. His hair, unusually white for someone his apparent age. His silver-white eyes held a peculiar gleam that certainly didn't align with the typical image of a dirt-town orphan.

He muttered, "...You're not from around here."

Leon offered a faint smile. "Perhaps. Or maybe I'm just a noble on an extended vacation from my tragic backstory."

A subtle stiffening occurred in the smith's posture.

The blacksmith remained unsure whether Leon was joking or not. Leon offered no clarification.

Instead, he pointed to a pair of twin daggers displayed prominently on the top rack. They featured simple hilts and unadorned steel blades, exuding an air of balance and practicality.

"These. How much are they?"

"Ten silver," the smith replied without hesitation.

Leon let out a small cough. "You say that as if it isn't highway robbery."

"Good steel commands a price."

"Sure, but these?" Leon squinted at the blades. "They look like something a goblin would try to sell you after losing a fight."

The man's brow twitched. "You've got a sharp tongue for someone with rather short arms."

"I compensate with long grudges," Leon replied sweetly. "I've seen soup ladles that possess more intimidation."

"Forged with mountain-hardened iron. Quenched in Bristleback oil. Balanced meticulously by hand."

"Ceremonial spoons in the capital are also made with great care."

"It involves a three-day tempering process."

"They still look like they'd lose a fight against a sturdy loaf of bread."

"They can gut a boar with a single strike."

Leon tilted his head. "So can I—provided the boar is already dead and emotionally unprepared for the encounter."

The smith exhaled sharply through his nose. "If you desire quality, you must be prepared to pay for it."

Leon reached out and picked up one of the daggers, testing its weight. It felt… correct. His fingers instinctively adjusted to the hilt’s grip. He made no outward sign of this.

"No enchantments. No runes. Not even a pretentious fake brand name. Ten silver is completely delusional."

The smith folded his arms resolutely. "Then by all means, go find yourself some worse steel elsewhere."

"You’re the sole blacksmith here, essentially a monopoly. That doesn’t grant you the right to act like royalty."

"Eight silver."

"Three."

The smith sputtered, "That barely covers the cost of materials!"

"Then cease your pricing as if you’re financing an entire kingdom."

"Six. That’s my final offer."

Leon sent a coin spinning through the air. "Three—and I’ll prevent the rumor that your shop peddles ‘bread-killers’ from spreading."

A prolonged, intense glare was his only response.

Leon held his ground, unwavering.

"...Three silver," the smith finally conceded, massaging his temples. "And if you break them—"

"My complaints are professional. I don’t resort to tears."

He deposited the coins into the smith’s hand, securing the daggers on either side of his waist.

As Leon departed, the smith mumbled to himself, "A kid like that is either cursed, demon-possessed, or dangerously sharp."

Leon’s voice carried back, "Or perhaps all three."

Returning to the inn, Leon slipped into his dimly illuminated chamber. With a practiced turn, he engaged the old brass lock until a satisfying click echoed, followed by the deliberate slide of the deadbolt, as if securing himself against an unseen threat.

Click. Clack. Slide. Lock. The chair wedged beneath the knob.

Abandoning any pretense of sleep, he reached into his soul inventory.

The Dimensional Hourglass materialized in his grasp, emanating its familiar starlight.

"Alright," he murmured. "Time to ditch the soup empire. Time to get honed."

He set the hourglass upon the floor and twisted its cap.

Reality flickered.

Instantly, he was enveloped within.

The temporal dimension stretched before him, an unending vista of muted gray, a boundless expanse. It existed in a state of profound stillness, devoid of life, sound, or motion, as if the world itself had been suspended in an eternal quietude.

His personal training sanctuary.

Leon drew forth the twin daggers, their weight distributing perfectly in his hands.

He observed his own hands—slender, small, not weak… but insufficient.

Not yet sufficient.

The memory of the thug’s foul scent, the icy tendrils of fear that had snaked up his spine, resurfaced. His survival that day owed much to swift thinking and a fierce refusal to succumb to fear. Luck had certainly played its part.

"That won’t happen again," he vowed softly.

No more trembling. No more relying on hope. No more leaving his fate to chance.

He adopted a stance, ungainly and pieced together from fragmented memories of anime and street brawls. Yet, it marked a beginning.

His shoulders began to burn. His arms screamed in protest after merely five swings.

But he pressed on, refusing to falter.

Not even for a moment.

"I possess all the time in existence," he whispered. "And I am finished with fear."

Within the silent embrace of a realm unbound by clocks, unyielding in its indifference, and unseen by any observer—Leon moved relentlessly. Striking. Evading. Falling. Recovering.

And gradually, painstakingly, the fear was systematically excised.

[Author’s Note: Leave a comment if you enjoyed the chapter! It sincerely invigorates my spirit and propels the narrative forward. <3]